


Warm Water

by lurrel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Inception Reverse Bang, M/M, mentions of a past relationship with an ofc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurrel/pseuds/lurrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames find their escape hindered by a flood. </p>
<p>For the lovely yjudaes' <a href="http://yjudaes.livejournal.com/414981.html">artwork</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Water

There are perks to working with Arthur: 

1) He always has an exit strategy.

2) He keeps the dress code of an office pleasingly upscale.

3) He's a well-trained judoka, which made him good for sparring and better for bar brawls.

4) He’ll never leave you behind.

Even these wonderful guarantees don’t include a clean getaway, because Arthur isn’t a miracle worker and the dreamshare community is full of shiftless bastards, including himself.

This explains why Eames is fleeing for his life.

\--

The job wasn’t simple, but they wouldn’t be working together if it was. Arthur and Eames could do one-man extractions and militarization work on their own for triple the payout of working with a team.

Instead, Eames calls Arthur for the _fun_ jobs. This was a two level -- Cobb set the bar high, but the industry followed. It was a double-cross posing as a militarization. Twice the cash, and it held the promise of a long vacation of laying low on a Caribbean island to follow.

It’s less fun now that he's knocking Arthur over, out of the way of some bullets. And fun isn’t why Arthur is handcuffing the PASIV case to his left wrist and shooting with his right hand. The mark isn’t dead, but the men who burst into his office don’t belong to the building’s security team.

“Triple-crossed,” Arthur hisses and then shoots over Eames’ shoulder.

“Shouldn’t have used a new chemist,” Eames says and Arthur laughs.

\--

Most jobs, of course, aren't like this at all. But escapes stick in Eames’ memory, seared with a rush of adrenaline that comes with a job with Arthur.

They take separate hallways and Eames starts running down the building’s back stairwell. He’s got a getaway car two parking lots over, a vintage Pontiac Grand Am that he’d picked up after finding out the job was in Nashville.

“Your home turf?” Eames asked him lightly when he’d called and offered the job, and Arthur looked startled over the video feed.

“I can do research too, you know,” Eames said, but that research had cost him quite a bit of cash. Digging any deeper didn’t seem to be worth it. Not anymore.

\--

Eames only has to shoot two more security guards before getting to the exit, where he’s surprised by three more guys. A chest shot clears his way but he has to push a body out, and it means he’ll have to burn the clothes he’s wearing. His hands are getting slick with blood.

His phone rings. 

“Where are we going?” Eames asks as he swerves out of the way of a spray of bullets.

“Safehouse,” Arthur says, but it’s barely audible over the static of air rushing past the phone. Arthur’s running, somewhere, hopefully to the damned Ducati Eames spied lurking around their workspace.

“Look Eames, I’ll text you the coordinates when I can. Shake ‘em off.”

Eames closes the phone and peels out of the parking lot.

\--

When they meet up, Arthur is bleeding from the head. The car already stank with blood -- hot and metallic, and when he catches up with Arthur Eames’ nostrils are already full of the smell of iron and the wet earth of the woods they met in.

The blood vessels in Arthur’s right eye have burst open, leaving him looking worse then he’s feeling, probably. That doesn’t help Eames shake the urge to dab at his face with a warm cloth and tuck him in, though he swallows that down immediately. It's a weird impulse and unwelcome.

“Where’s your helmet?” Eames asks instead, looking at his gun, and Arthur shrugs. His wrist is chafed, irritated by the handcuff keeping the PASIV close.

“I ditched my leathers with some homeless guys about ten miles out, ditched the helmet somewhere else.” Arthur’s moving with care, and Eames considers the bruising on his own ribs.

Arthur looks at the sky; it’s an ominous gray that's full of promises of bad weather.

“We’re about five or six miles off. It probably won’t rain til then, but I think it’s wet enough that our tracks’ll be covered.”

Eames doesn’t relish trekking through muddy woods for five miles, but the mud overcomes his footprints easily and he doesn't have a better plan. Doesn't need to have a better plan, because this is why he's brought Arthur to this job in the first place.

“You’ve done this before.”

Arthur looks back, frowning. “Course I have.”

“No, I mean here. In these woods.”

Arthur busies himself with his gun and doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not just going to leave my car out here, are you?” Eames asks after a pause.

Arthur snorts and looks over his shoulder. “You stole that car.” He isn't smiling but Eames smiles back anyway.

“That doesn’t mean I haven’t gotten attached.”

“We’ll probably have to torch it. The bike too,” Arthur says, wistful. “It can wait a while though -- these guys aren’t going to the police.”

\--

The house they end up at isn’t nice. 

In fact, the neighborhood isn’t nice, but the blood stains don't get them stared at, and no one calls the cops. It feels strangely organic, Arthur walking up the street like he belongs there, like sneaking up to a house in the darkness of evening is par for the course.

Arthur gets to work on picking the lock to the front door of the shabby one story. The porch is clean but the steps are loose, protesting when Eames steps on them.

Eames is looking around, looks up and a giant white cat stares down at him from the porch roof, nestled in the boards.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, almost shouts, and Arthur glances up to where Eames is staring.

“Oh, that’s Bev. She lives around the house. Didn’t think she’d still be around.”

The lock pops open and Arthur ushers Eames inside. Bev meows loudly when Arthur shuts the door behind him without inviting her in.

The inside is a pretty basic one-bedroom house, and more cheerful than the peeling paint of the exterior suggested. The kitchen is clean and the furniture is new, light colors and throw pillows, a fairly new television in the living room. Old magazines and newspapers litter a coffee table.

It sort of looks like a display room in a mid-scale furniture store, and Eames can picture Arthur striding into one, nodding, and telling an employee that he’ll take the whole set, no dithering about.

“Where are we?” Eames asks as he tries to take off his shoes with bloody fingers.

“It used to be my uncle’s,” Arthur says. “I got it when he died. Sometimes I rent it out. Sometimes I don’t bother.”

Eames finds the bathroom -- old fixtures but clean , and starts running water. It shoots out rust colored and Arthur calls out “Let it run for a second. Should be fine. Towels are in the closet.”

\--

“This seems far more lived in than that lovely loft you have in Chicago,” Eames says later. He’s settled on the couch, his clothes in the dingy washing machine. He’s wearing a pair of jeans he found in the bedroom’s dresser -- it was full of clothes of various sizes. 

Arthur looks worse after a shower, bruising standing out in contrast to the pink tinge of his heated skin. He’s looking at Eames like he’s surprised he’s still there.

Eames scratches at the cut on his arm, around the bandage. He doesn't know why he mentioned Arthur's loft, that he's been inside of Arthur's apartment before. He doesn't even know if Arthur still lives there.

“You should get some gauze on that wrist,” Eames says, and he starts flipping through channels. The TV is big, has cable, both facets surprise him.

Arthur shuffles into the bedroom without replying, coming out wearing basketball shorts that are neither flattering nor enticing. He runs a hand through his wet hair and is staring at Eames.

“Seriously, this house is honestly less dire than I was expecting,” Eames says, and Arthur laughs.

“We probably can only stay here a day or two, then we’ll need to get out of the country.”

He tilts his head to the side, looking at Eames. “You’re less beat up than the blood suggested.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” Eames says, and Arthur rolls his good eye.

“Sorry. You look just as lovely beaten to shit as you do unblemished.” 

Arthur’s mouth quirks at one side, dubious, and Eames spreads his hands out in surrender. "I wouldn't lie about your loveliness, Arthur."

He spends a little too long staring at Eames' left hand, then jerks his head up.

“I’m exhausted,” Arthur says finally, “Help yourself to anything in the pantry -- this place should be stocked with a bunch of non-perishables.”

Eames does, eating some canned fruit and a protein bar. He smokes a cigarette out on the porch and listens to people moving around the neighborhood. It’s late evening but the bustle is still there. No one pays him any attention, and he decides he likes this place.

When he slips into the bedroom, Arthur is curled up and doesn’t stir and doesn’t wake up when Eames slides in next to him.

\--

In the middle of the night, Eames wakes up with Arthur in his arms, breathing solidly. He's warm, real, and pressed against him. Eames can hear the beat of his own heart in his chest.

Eames lets himself be lulled to sleep.

\--

Eames wakes up in the morning to the soft murmur of Arthur’s voice from outside the bedroom. It sounds like he’s on the phone.

Eames waits until the conversation is over to emerge from the bedroom.

“Morning,” Arthur says, nodding. He’s still not wearing a shirt and looks run down, and Eames isn’t sure he’s ever seen Arthur drink instant coffee before. The laptop at his side is familiar, at least, even if the exact computer is new.

“Who was that?” Eames asks, nodding at the phone. He wonders if it’s the same one Arthur used on the job or if the safe house is actually that well stocked -- laptop, burner phones, a satellite phone, canned peaches and packets of oatmeal that Arthur is clearly ignoring.

“I’m dealing with some loose ends. Just called McKenzie to let him know what’s up. I think it was less of a triple cross and more like we’ve been played. But both clients are gonna keep each other busy for a while.”

“You don’t sound surprised.” Eames isn’t.

Arthur finishes the dredges of his coffee and gets up to put it his mug in the sink.

“Why’d you even take this job?” Eames asks. Arthur’s shoulders look tight and he’s moving differently than Eames is used to, like he doesn’t need to stand up straight here. 

“You always bring in breakfast pastries,” Arthur says, “and you’re an excellent crack shot.”

“Arthur.” 

“I heard a rumor,” Arthur says, but Eames cuts that off with a look.

“You still weren’t wearing a ring in Paris. And _then_ I heard a rumor that there wasn’t gonna be one.”

Eames can’t say he wasn’t expecting it. “There won’t be.”

“What happened?” Arthur. Eames sits down and watches as Arthur puts a kettle on without being asked. It feels weirdly intimate and Eames wishes Arthur would put on a suit or bristle, rather than slump around the kitchen in shapeless shorts.

“She was sick of getting shot at.”

“And you weren’t? You’re not here for the gunshots,” Arthur says. He looks thoughtful for a second and Eames looks at his rib cage. Not all the bruises are new.

“What I wasn’t was ready. I wasn’t in it for the quiet moments, it turns out,” Eames says, and he sighs. “You’ve probably already heard this from eight different sources. I fucked it up but I don’t regret it.”

“I’ve only got teabags,” Arthur says after a pause, handing Eames a mug.

“I’ll live.”

“I was sorry to hear it didn’t work out,” Arthur says, sitting back down. The set of his shoulders and the splay of his legs is different than it is on a job. 

“You’re not really.”

“I said I was,” Arthur snaps and then they both pause. Eames isn’t sure if that means Arthur is no longer sorry or if he’s sick of Eames doubting him.

Arthur sighs and the moment passes, his body language shifting until Eames can understand it again. The conversation is almost over judging by the set of his shoulders, the twitches of his fingers. “Jun ran a clean operation. She was good to work with.”

Eames laughs -- the compliment takes him off guard, as though Jun’s competence had anything to do with him.

Arthur’s phone lights up, beeping loudly from the table, and Arthur frowns when he looks at the screen.

“Tropical storm is on its way,” Arthur says. “Shit.” He turns to his computer, typing.

“We could probably get out of state before the flooding hits,” Eames says, but it’s half-hearted. The typing is urgent enough that Eames can see his future in it, and it means being caged in with Arthur for at least the next few days.

“Why take the risk when we just did a job on two airline execs?” Arthur doesn’t look up from his laptop, but he does pause before saying, “By the way, we’ve got two more job offers -- South Africa Airways and Alaska Air want some higher level execs militarized, which are either going to be some cushy paychecks or--”

“--Or two very obvious traps,” Eames finishes, and he gets up, takes his tea to the window in the kitchen. “I haven’t been to Alaska.”

Arthur snorts. “You’re not missing a lot unless you love snow.”

“No, the view in here suits me just fine.” Eames doesn't bother to leer, and Arthur catches his eye. He’s not annoyed, and Eames is caught a little off-guard. The tips of Arthur’s ears turn pink.

Arthur breaks eye contact first and stretches, pulling his arms above his head and making his body a lean arc. “Your flattery is appreciated, and you can keep it up when I have to cook dinner on a butane grill.”

\--

As the day goes on, Eames realizes that he feels almost comfortable around Arthur. It isn’t what he expected to feel.

He expected Arthur to be more accusatory, blaming Eames for pulling them both into a risky job and getting them (him) beat up, trapping them in Nashville to wait to be swept up in an overflowing river.

Instead, Arthur hasn’t mentioned the job more than necessary, and Eames feels most out of sorts when Arthur leaves with a neighbor to buy sandbags and bottled water and batteries.

He wanders through it and studies photos -- there are a few shots of what appear to be the Arthur family patriarchs, people who must be Arthur’s father and uncle and grandfather standing and smiling. 

Arthur comes back, and he seems at ease with Eames in a way that was missing in Paris during the Fischer job. Arthur was too on edge there, too close to finally finally ending his time on the run, maybe. Arthur in Tennessee stretches out on the couch and naps after throwing some sandbags in front of the door and leaving food out for stray cats.

Things haven’t felt this easy since before they stopped sleeping together. Back then, Eames thought he was ready to settle down and Arthur wasn’t ready for anything resembling settling, wasn't ready for anything outside of the adrenaline rush of dreamshare. It was ill-advised, which made it fun, sharp, and temporary. When they needed anchors, they didn't reach for each other. 

Eames lets Arthur sleep, looks at the frown on his face, and then digs through the closet and dresser for a shirt to put on while he waits for Arthur to wake up so they can weatherproof the windows.

\--

The next morning starts with a weird gray light filtering in through the filthy windows. His arm is thrown around Arthur’s waist, fingers curled over the warm skin of his side, proprietary.

It’s more comforting than he remembers, to feel Arthur’s ribs expand under his palm.

Even waking up is less awkward than he thinks is reasonable, with Arthur stretching and rolling away from him, smiling softly.

“Rain’ll be starting soon,” Arthur says instead of good morning, and he heads to the washroom.

\--

There are other perks to working with Arthur -- he doesn’t do things by halves. The front door is set with sandbags and the pantry is even more stocked than it was before, dry goods overflowing on its shelves. The freezer is packed with ice and he’s got beer chilling in the fridge, something he assured Eames was ‘essential.’ He spends the morning filling the tub with water and checking the windows as drizzle starts.

Eames jumps when the power flickers off, jerks out of his seat at the first real booming clap of thunder. The lightning is blinding when it bisects the sky and he counts until he hears rumbling, and it’s close by.

Arthur makes him tea and touches his shoulder when he startles. They have the weather channel on TV with the volume low, and Arthur is reading a book from the bedroom with his bare feet propped on the coffee table.

“You seem pretty used to this,” Eames says as he holds his second mug of tea in both hands. The storm has him on edge

“I spent a summer here,” Arthur says, shrugging. “It was a weird time. This isn’t my first hurricane.”

“Tropical storm,” Eames corrects.

“It’s not my first flood,” Arthur says. His eye is healing up, Eames notes.

The power flickers off.

\--

Arthur’s reading by candlelight by the time Eames decides maybe he wants to talk, and he can’t interrupt that. Arthur curled in an armchair looks so unlike anything he’s encountered that it makes it impossible to speak.

\--

Arthur goes to bed before Eames, and Eames gets to look at him sprawled in the middle of the bed. His eye is less bloodshot when open, but his face still has a big smear of a bruise on the arch of his cheekbone. His ribs are mottled with bruises, and his wrist is still red and inflamed.

Rain is still crashing against the roof, the windows, but the urgency of the flood is over.

“I missed you,” Arthur murmurs as the mattress dips with Eames’ weight. His eyes are dark slits and he’s not asleep.

“I,” Eames pauses, because there were things he missed and things he found not worth dwelling on and this is the latter, something that got put away when he tried to grow up and leave this life behind. The pull in his chest is stronger than anything he’s felt in the past eight months, before the Fischer job but after Jun gave him back his ring and told him to get his shit together. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Arthur sits up, winds a hand in Eames’ hair, and kisses him. His mouth tastes like cinnamon toothpaste and his tongue is hot, and Eames rests his hands on the small of Arthur’s back. Arthur shifts, and the kiss opens to tongues, and Eames is slow with it, doesn’t let Arthur push him.

“I missed this,” he says, and expects Arthur to fight him, press him for dominance until he yields. Maybe Arthur would let him win.

He has no idea what Arthur wants.

When Arthur pulls away, he has a furrow in his forehead and a frown. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I’m not sure what to make of you,” Eames says, honest and open.

“I’m exhausted,” he says, and Eames kisses him on the temple, runs fingers through his hair. 

“I took this off the list of reasons I like working with you." Arthur smiles at that. 

“I know what I want,” Arthur says, “I don’t do things by halves. You don’t, either.”

Eames thinks about this, about Arthur, about how they didn’t work before and what he thought that meant about himself. He thinks about the PASIV Arthur has stashed under the bed, and he thinks about the dull splash of blood that was settled on Arthur’s neck as they walked through the woods.

He kisses Arthur with a hint of teeth. Arthur sinks into it with a groan. 

\--

The morning is bright in the way that storms aren’t.

Eames wakes up with Arthur pressed against his chest, and when Arthur stirs into waking he feels comfortable. He feels rested. 

The water doesn’t breach the house.


End file.
